No Light Inside
by babybluecas
Summary: It's been dark in their home, lately. blind!Cas


Dean's already passed the switch when the lights on the staircase go out. He doesn't go back. It's not so bad: in the moonlight slipping in through the small window he can still see the edges of stairs, outline of the apartment doors lining the corridor. Even if he closed his eyes, he'd probably still get to the third door on the left easily - six months have gotten him remembering the way home quite well. A bunch of keys jungles faintly as he pulls it from the pocket of his jacket and feels for the right one - the one with a deeper engraving, a distinctive texture palpable under his thumb. Still he bites his lip, as he slides it into the lock and turns. The click is oddly loud in the surrounding silence, but it lets him know he chose right. He's welcomed with a quiet creak of the door he never got around to greasing. Then more silence.

It's dark inside as well, even darker with the curtains in all of the windows closed. The light switch is right in his reach but, again, he lets it be - why shouldn't it be dark in their flat? It's fitting. He waits for a cheerless welcome or for any sound to ring in the atmosphere, for a shadowy outline to move in a corner, on the sofa - nothing. He shoots a glance at the locked bedroom door, the place where the knob must be, now invisible - it doesn't move, doesn't make a sound.

There is something else there, a shape he knows well, piled at the doorstep. It makes Dean give out a barely audible sigh. Making little noise he takes off his jacket and hangs it. Then come the boots, with a quiet thud placed on the floor next to Cas's trainers. He needs a shower; the molecules of oil hanging heavy in the kitchen air seem to have clung to him, lay in thick layer on his skin, his hair, soaking him with thick, nauseating scent of grease. He feels dirty, dirtier than bathed in blood and soil, stinkier than steeped in smoke and stale whisky and filthy sheets in the cheapest motel rooms.

"Bought Chinese," he announces, not expecting any reply, even if it's Cas's favorite. He lays the bag on the kitchen counter.

On his toes he makes his way to the bathroom. The sudden sharp light forces him to blink a few times before his eyes get used to it. He strips his clothes quickly, throws all of them into the laundry basket and enters the shower. It's been two weeks and water never seems to wash away the filth completely, but it helps. He lets the hot cascade spill all over his head and down his back until his whole body is wet, the heat helps his tense muscles relax.

He reaches for a bottle and the first thing he grabs, he pours on his hand. It's Cas's shampoo, some girly stuff with cinnamon and some other spices, Dean massages it into his scalp. Cas will be sulking when he smells it on him, but Cas can't get much more sulking than he already is. Besides, it smells like Cas, like his damp hair in the evening, tickling Dean's nose as they fall asleep, like Cas's skin, hot with passion, rubbing against his. Dean can't remember whether Cas always smelled like cinnamon or if it's just the cosmetic. He wonders how long until he forgets the fragrance.

Like Dean expected, the food is cold by the time he leaves the bathroom, and untouched, wrapped in the bag just as he left it. He's not gonna eat alone, he's not gonna let Cas starve. To be honest, he's not sure, whether behind that door there's anything left but bones.

"Cas, open the door," he demands, knocking gently on the wood. Then he knocks louder, like it could give him a better effect. "Cas?"

There's no answer, but for a few tiny noises that let Dean know Cas is alive. This is the moment when he should leave, turn on the TV and fall asleep to it's buzz. But it's been going on for too long this time. Dean's fingers embrace the knob, then turn and nothing happens, door won't budge.

"You love Chinese, Cas, I went to your favorite place," he teases, putting on a smile he knows will fall in a second. "I'll put it into a microwave, come out, we'll eat together."

Cas doesn't come out, Dean doesn't set the microwave timer, even though his stomach loudly demands a supper. If Cas isn't hungry, he doesn't have to be either.

"Dammit, Cas!" he snaps, finally. "Just say no, if you don't want it, say 'fuck off' if you must!" He kicks the bedding piled at the door - god, he's so sick of sleeping on the couch - he matches his shoulder against the door. "I'm gonna barge in, I swear."

Whether the threat worked or Cas just got tired, he gives up, at last.

"I'm not hungry," he mutters, voice muffled by what must be a pillow.

It's a relief to finally hear his voice, however faint.

"Can you bring it here?" Cas adds after a beat, to Dean's surprise, but he's not gonna hold the contradiction against him.

"Sure," he rushes to heat it up, the door's unlocked when he gets back.

The bedroom's even darker than the rest of the flat, if that's possible. Dean wishes it wouldn't make him this uneasy - maybe it's because utter darkness is the only thing that makes it all too real.

"Hi, Cas." Dean meanders across the room, towards the bed. He knows the way well, doesn't fear stray objects waiting for him to stumble on and dive in rice, because Cas wouldn't do that to himself.

"You could just turn the light on, you know." It's been years since the last time Cas's voice carried this little emotion. "Trying to feel what I feel won't help me much."

"I know," Dean replies, quickly. "It just- It doesn't feel fair."

Guttural chuckle escapes Cas's mouth and it sounds terrifying in the darkness, humorless and feral. It makes Dean wish he could unhear it.

"Of course it doesn't. It isn't fair," Cas says, taking the box from Dean. His fingers brush Dean's for a second, then draw away, leaving him aching for the touch.

"It's not," Dean admits, feeling for Cas's bony knee on the covers. "I'd switch places with you if I could, you know that."

He regrets right away playing that card. Those words he's spoken so many times, he's afraid of sounding insincere. He would, though, he'd give his eyes for Cas's if he could. He would stand where he stood and stared down at Lucifer's dying grace lashing out until his mortal eyes burned out. But he fears for Cas those words are empty now.

"You used my shampoo," Cas changes topic with his mouth full of food.

"I missed you," Dean answers like it explains it. It does.

They eat in silence, Dean's hand hardly even moving, forcing bites into his mouth despite the appetite long gone, Cas making barely any noise. It's heavy: the quiet, the darkness - the air hanging between them. He misses seeing Cas. He could be pale now, the corners of his lips hanging low, scarred eyelids closed tightly over the glass spheres, or two empty holes.

"Will you be okay, Cas?" Dean breaks the unbearable silence, putting his half-full box away.

"Eventually." The answer's mulled over, recycled. He's used it all up when he's lost his wings, when he couldn't fall asleep, plagued by nightmares. And then later, when he succumbed into the world of darkness, always the "eventually" that never seem to come in time and not for long enough.

"I thought you were fine. You were." Dean reaches with his hand to find the edge of Cas. He pulls himself closer, his thigh against Cas's, his arm against Cas's back. "What happened?"

"My blindness happened," Cas answers, voice balancing on the line between irritated and resigned.

This isn't right, and is at the same time. But it used to be good: they quit hunting, they rented a flat. During the days Cas would learn the new world from the beginning, at nights he would learn Dean with his fingers and his lips. Maybe they rushed too much, tried too hard to make it right and move on, ignoring everything on their way, as long as they could label it as "the price for saving the world."

"Your blindness happened half a year ago," Dean tries, barely above a whisper, fearing of saying one word too many. "We kinda had it figured out."

"We?"

It feels like a punch. He bites his lip.

"You," he corrects, dragging his own face closer, resting his chin on Cas's unmoving shoulder.

Cas doesn't pull away. They sit in more silence, more darkness, more stillness. Dean's eyes begin to ache from the strenuous search for any trace of light, or maybe they just burn from the tears gathering behind his eyelids.

"Dean," Cas's whisper sounds like a sudden explosion, "what do you expect of me?"

Dean doesn't know. Expecting anything, expecting Cas to be well, like this, is wrong. He has taken for granted Cas fighting through all. He has taken Cas for granted, too.

"Just… don't slip away, please," he begs. Not caring for the newfound vulnerability, he breathes, "I'm so afraid."

Cas's palms find his, reaching where the embrace interlocks and for a moment it feels like Cas will pry his arms apart and escape, but his touch becomes gentle, his fingertips wander across the field of small cuts and scars, before settling on his knuckles, wrapping around Dean's palm in reassurance.

"Okay."


End file.
